


Out of the blue

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Series: Falling for you [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Magic, Marriage, Middle Earth, Sex Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of falling out of our world and into Middle Earth, resulting in an awkward first meeting with Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the blue

There was nothing outwardly remarkable about the antique shop on Gloucester Road, except, perhaps, that it seemed to be always closed. You passed it every time you walked to the grocery store from the little shoebox of a studio at the top of a Victorian building near Kensington Gardens that you would call home for the next three months, and only ever saw the same lonely table in the display window, the white marble top laid with the same china tea set, its painted flowers fading in the sunlight.

The shop was inconsequential, certainly, in the scope of your giddy excitement that your long-awaited summer in London was underway. This adventurous detour before you went back to the grind of grad school had been financed by a lot of nannying jobs and even more ramen dinners, but you were finally there, even if you would be living on a shoestring. Your landlady was a trust-fund baby who had inherited the tiny flat from her grandparents and couldn’t be bothered to invest in the renovations it desperately needed, but the rent was dirt-cheap, so you stuffed a towel into the hole in the bathroom window casing and learned to order your schedule around the finicky water heater, and walked – after all, walking was free – down Gloucester Road to do your marketing.

Still, it came as a surprise on that particular day when you walked past the antique shop and saw, for the first time, that the sign hung crookedly in the window now read “open.” Curiosity pricked at you, and after standing indecisively for a moment, surveying the storefront, you quickly crossed the street and opened the glass door.

The silvery tinkling of a bell announced your arrival, and an elderly man looked up from where he stood behind a glass display case containing an assortment of jewelry, pocket watches, and other trinkets. Keen blue eyes peered out of his wrinkled face, and a fluffy thatch of pale gray hair floated about his head.

“Good morning,” he called heartily.

“Good morning,” you smiled.

“Is there anything in particular that you seek, my dear?”

“Oh, no…thank you,” you answered. “I’m just browsing.”

Your eye fell upon a thick book that lay on a curio cabinet just inside the door. The leather binding was marked with what appeared to be some sort of runes, and when you opened it, its fragile pages were filled with more of the same.

The shopkeeper observed you closely. “Very interesting book, that one,” he remarked.

“I can’t tell what language this is,” you puzzled. “It’s somewhat similar to Old Norse runes, but it’s not quite that…not Old English, either.”

“You are familiar with ancient languages, I take it?” 

“I just finished a double major in linguistics and history,” you admitted, adding, with a chuckle, “I tell everyone it’s going to help me with a career in diplomacy, but really, I’m kind of a language nerd.”

He did not join you in laughing, and it struck you that there was a hint of appraisal in his watchful eyes before his face suddenly creased in a smile. “If you find that book interesting, there is something else I’d like to show you…something very special indeed.” He beckoned you to the opposite corner of the shop where a large, rectangular mirror with an ornately carved frame of dark wood leaned against the wall, waving you over to stand in front of it, and you came slowly, beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something a bit off about him.

“Now,” he said eagerly, pointing with both index fingers to direct your attention toward the mirror, “tell me what you see.”

“Um…myself?” you answered, your eyes darting around to look for anything else you ought to be seeing.

He gave a cheerful chuckle. “Quite right, my dear, very good,” he said pleasantly. “But I wonder if you might just take a step closer.”

Uh- _huh_.

His hands on your shoulders gently guided you nearer to your reflection, and your hand had just slipped into your purse to close around your canister of pepper spray when something in the mirror caught your eye. You frowned, peering more closely at the image, and your fear was overcome by curiosity.

“It’s…changed, somehow,” you said, confused. “I can see trees…some sort of forest…and people! It looks like people camping.” 

You cocked your head to look for more details, nearly pressing your nose to the glass and wondering if there was some kind of projector involved, when the shopkeeper’s delighted voice said, “excellent!” and you felt a light shove on your back.

In an instant, the glass of the mirror turned to a silvery mist and you were falling, pale blue sky around you, and below you the picture you’d just been looking at. There was a swift flash of green leaves and the orange of a campfire, a dark blur of fur and hair and a glimpse of a horrified face as you fell screaming through the air and landed with a dull thud on something solid.

The solid thing beneath you convulsed, and hands clutched your waist, and you opened your eyes to find yourself face to face with a man whose blue eyes were wide with shock, his breath short, his bearded jaw hanging slack as he stared at you in disbelief. Movement in the corner of your eye made you look around to find yourself surrounded by several other men, strangely dressed and armed to the teeth, though they made no move to advance upon you. You had the distinct impression that had you been some sort of three-headed, fire-breathing hellbeast, they would have dispatched you quite matter-of-factly, but they appeared to be paralyzed by finding themselves confronted with a woman.

Coming to your senses, you began to flail against the arms that had caught you, demanding, “let go of me!”

With a start, the man flung his hands back in a gesture of surrender and you both scrambled to your feet. You now realized that he was quite short for a grown man – in fact, so were his companions – and just as you’d opened your mouth to start demanding answers, there was a rustling among the nearby trees and an urgent voice calling out.

“It’s all right! I can explain everything, Thorin, for pity’s sake do not do anything rash.” An elderly man emerged into the clearing, settling a tall, pointed hat upon his head and smoothing his long, shabby, gray robes. He had a mane of pale gray hair and a long beard, and the effect of so much gray rather gave him the appearance of being made of stone, but a pair of keen blue eyes looked sharply at you, and you gasped.

“You!” you burst out accusingly, and he had the grace to look sheepish. “What the hell is going on here? A minute ago, I was standing in your shop, looking into a mirror, and now I’m out in the middle of nowhere at some kind of…Renaissance Faire!” You flung your hands in the direction of the men around you, a few of whom looked affronted on principle, but the rest only exchanged confused shrugs and shakes of their heads. 

“My dear girl,” the shopkeeper began mildly, but you were suddenly seized by a horrible new suspicion.

“You drugged me, didn’t you?” you whimpered, feeling the blood draining from your face. “You did, you drugged me and now I’m hallucinating, and you’re going to sell me to them, oh God…please don’t hurt me,” you begged feebly.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” he avowed, his tone turning exasperated. “You are under no illusions here, and you will come to no harm among these decent folk.” He sighed, and addressed himself to you with considerably more patience. “I am Gandalf – Gandalf the Grey – and these are the dwarves of the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Dwarves?” you asked skeptically. “Like in fairy tales?”

A surly dwarf with a bald, tattooed head and arms like tree trunks began to bluster at your words. “Fairy tales? You dare to–”

“Dwalin, calm yourself,” Gandalf admonished, “she is not of this world, she cannot be expected to know the ways of its people.” 

Dwalin curbed his tongue, but crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed, and you glared at him.

“Now,” Gandalf continued briskly, “Bombur, if you would be so kind, we would do well to offer our guest breakfast while we talk things over.”

The most portly of the dwarves scurried to the campfire, and the clang of pots and pans began to echo in the awkward silence.

“All right, all of you,” barked the dwarf who had borne the brunt of your grand entrance, the one Gandalf had called Thorin. “About your business!”

As the dwarves dispersed, you massaged your forehead with your fingers, muttering, “I’d trade a kidney for a mimosa with that breakfast.”

“What’s a mimosa?” asked a handsome, dark-haired dwarf who appeared to be younger and more cheerful than the others.

“What’s a kidney?” piped in his timid-looking friend, swathed in a thick, knitted sweater and fingerless gloves, two braids framing his face as he peeked at you from behind the dark-haired one.

You sighed, chuckling dryly in spite of yourself. “You know what, forget about the kidney…too complicated. And a mimosa is a drink. Very popular where I’m from.”

“We’ve got ale,” suggested a blond dwarf with a rakish smirk.

“Oh, no,” you said adamantly. “No beer before noon.” Reflexively, you checked your watch, only to find it had stopped just after 10:30, when you’d fallen through the mirror. “Perfect,” you grumbled, as Gandalf approached, offering a wooden mug filled with hot tea. You accepted it, though you raised a reproachful eyebrow at him.

“So, you’re telling me you somehow just…spirited me away to a whole other _world_?” you asked, shaking your head in disbelief. “The ‘drug-induced hallucination’ scenario is sounding better all the time.”

“I am sorry, my dear, I must ask you to forgive my methods,” he admitted, with a wry smile. “I realize this will have been trying for you…but I give you my word that all shall be explained. You see,” he leaned closer, a twinkle in his eye, and said conspiratorially, “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”


	2. Into the smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and his newfound love from another world are separated.

You flopped down, exhausted, to lie on your back on the straw inside Beorn’s house, wrinkling your nose at the smell of animals and smiling wryly at Thorin, beside you.

“Quite a day, huh?”

He gave a gruff snort that hinted at laughter. “Indeed.”

“Nothing like almost dying to make you feel alive, I guess,” you said, raising your arms to lace your fingers together under your head.

Thorin turned onto his side, propping himself on his elbow to look at you. “That was quick thinking, with that pepper spray of yours.”

A grin spread across your face. “Who knew it would work as well on those demon wolves–”

“Wargs,” he interjected.

“–Wargs, as it does on handsy frat boys,” you finished, with satisfaction.

His expression slowly mirrored your grin, and he cupped your cheek with his rough palm as he leaned over you to press his lips to yours, your hand moving to gather his luxuriant hair away from his face. 

To say that your foray into this new world had been a shock to your system would be an understatement, and your relationship with Thorin was perhaps the biggest surprise of them all. After all, you weren’t entirely sure that the two of you even occupied the same universe, and, thanks to Gandalf’s party-trick method of bringing you to Middle Earth, you hadn’t met under the most auspicious of circumstances. But there was something positively magnetic about the handsome, burdened, crownless King that made you reconsider a lifetime of scoffing at the notion of destiny, and you’d been inseparable since the company’s last evening in Rivendell, when the tension of a few weeks of smoldering glances and mutual fascination had exploded in a flurry of hot-blooded, knee-buckling kisses.

Your longing thoughts of home and family had faded to the occasional weak, guilty twinge in the excitement of your new adventures, new friendships, and new love, and your life in Middle Earth may as well have been the only life you’d ever known as you lay by Thorin’s side in the straw, kissing him ever more hungrily as your body warmed to his affection, twining your leg between his, hearing his breath hitch as your hand wandered to the lacing of his trousers.

“Do you know what else makes me feel alive?” you murmured mischievously, glancing over your shoulder to make sure that the rest of the dwarves, scattered in various nooks and corners of the room, slept on.

Though Thorin’s kisses were no less passionate, his hand closed gently around your wrist to remove your hand from his laces, pinning it over your head as his lips drifted to the soft skin of your neck.

Your own lips pursed in a teasing pout as you exhaled heavily. “Why do you always have to be a paragon of self-control?”

He smirked, releasing your hand, trailing his fingers down your arm. “Because if I am to make love to you, it will not be a boyish, half-clothed fumble in the dirt amongst the rest of the company.” His arm wound around your waist, drawing you nearer, and he moved his mouth close to your ear, dropping his voice to a low, sultry rumble that raised goosebumps on your skin. “When I bed you, you shall lie on velvet and silk in the King’s chamber in Erebor, and wear jewels – only jewels – while I make you cry out my name with only the stone walls to hear.”

His words sparked a pleasant warmth deep inside you, and you knew exactly what he could do to you if he wished, but still, you teased, “are you so confident in your talent?”

“I am,” he grinned.

“Erebor is a long way off, Your Majesty,” you sighed, toying with the embroidered trim of his tunic, and he nodded ruefully.

“Perhaps if we should find ourselves with a real bed and a locked door at our disposal, I might be persuaded to reconsider,” he conceded.

You smiled. “I will hold you to that.” 

He chuckled, and you nestled close to him, settling into his arms. “Do you think this Beorn will help us?” you asked quietly.

“I cannot say,” he answered. “Our hope is in Gandalf’s judgment now.”

“You don’t like that.”

“I have always preferred to be the master of my own fate,” Thorin admitted.

“Gandalf said Beorn would help us or kill us,” you mused, “with any luck, maybe there’s a third option.”

His arms tightened comfortingly around you. “We shall see what the morning brings. Rest now, my ghivâshel.”

“What’s that one, again?” you asked, yawning, and felt him smile against your forehead. The dwarvish tongue, Khuzdul, was a source of endless fascination to you, and you made a point of learning as much as you could about it, no small feat given that it was meant to be a secret language spoken only among dwarves. Your persistence had paid off, though, and during rest times in camp, Thorin could sometimes be persuaded to give you a short lesson, using a nearby stick to trace symbols in the dirt, the runes which you now recognized from Gandalf’s book that had started this whole adventure.

“Ghivâshel…treasure of treasures,” Thorin whispered, his lips grazing your hairline.

“I like that one,” you smiled, and, tucking your hand into the fur collar of his coat to rest over the steady beat of his heart, you closed your eyes.

Morning brought breakfast and negotiations with your enigmatic host, and you sat between Kili and Fili while Thorin lurked restlessly in the background. The oddity of a “daughter of Men,” as Beorn called you, traveling with the dwarves had not escaped his notice during the company’s awkward introductions, and Gandalf had quickly steered the conversation away from the subject of your unusual dress and manner. Now, you tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, drinking milk from a mug only slightly smaller than a punch bowl and listening closely to the skin-changer’s deliberations, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding when Beorn finally asked Thorin, “what do you need?”

The sun was high in a clear blue sky when Thorin helped you down from the back of the horse where you’d ridden behind him on the journey from Beorn’s homestead, and you stood on the gloomy outskirts of Mirkwood. The borrowed ponies wasted no time in cantering back toward their master’s house, and you all waited uneasily for Gandalf to return from venturing into the forest’s dark mouth.

The strained silence of the scene was abruptly shattered by Gandalf’s agitated call. “Not my horse! I need it!” 

The company turned as one entity to stare at him in confusion as he hurried toward you.

“You’re not leaving us?” Bilbo asked incredulously. The little hobbit looked as nervous as you felt, and everyone looked expectantly toward Gandalf.

“I would not do this unless I had to,” he answered heavily, and his tone was even more glum as he turned to you. “I am afraid I must ask you to come with me.”

“What?” you asked, shocked, and Thorin instinctively laid a protective hand on your arm.

“You must trust me, and you must come,” Gandalf insisted, and the urgency in his eyes seemed to plead privately with you, stirring a dark foreboding in the pit of your stomach.

Giving Gandalf a small nod, you forced a brave face as you turned to Thorin, taking his hands in yours. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” you said bracingly, but his brows were still heavily knitted, his face doubtful. “Hey,” you added in a softer tone, mustering a reassuring smile and a wink as you stroked his cheek, “you keep an eye out for a real bed and a locked door, okay?”

Thorin pulled you into a tight embrace, murmuring, “I will not rest until you are with me again.”

“Be careful,” you pleaded, holding him close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as he reluctantly released you.

Gandalf mounted his horse and extended a hand to help you up behind him as he addressed Thorin sternly. “I’ll be waiting for you at the overlook before the slopes of Erebor. Keep the map and key safe. Do not enter that mountain without me.” You grasped handfuls of the wizard’s gray robes to steady yourself, and Gandalf gave a last warning. “This is not the Greenwood of old. The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion, it will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray. You must stay on the path…do not leave it. If you do, you’ll never find it again.”  

Gandalf’s parting words to the company – “whatever may come, stay on the path” – rang in your ears as the horse wheeled and he spurred it to a gallop that wrenched your neck when you looked back for one more glimpse of Thorin, already shrinking into a dark speck in the distance. Gandalf urged the horse on at a hurried pace, the relentless jolting motion making your body sore as you tightly gripped its flanks with your knees, not stopping until you’d reached the foot of a mountain range which he scanned with keen eyes before turning to you with a somber expression.

“I am afraid the time has come to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” you shook your head in confusion, momentarily seized by the fear that he meant to leave you alone to fend for yourself in the wilderness.

Something about his expression caused a strange memory to flash into your mind…your father’s face when he had broken the news that they’d had to put your elderly, arthritic dog, the companion of your childhood, to sleep…

“I must return you to London.”

Your knees suddenly seemed to struggle to support you, and you felt your face blanch. “But – why? What if I don’t _want_ to go back?”

“I am afraid I cannot offer you the choice,” Gandalf said firmly. “A darkness is growing, more evil and more powerful than I have foreseen. Great danger lies ahead for us all. It is for your own safety that I send you back.”

“What about the company’s safety? What about Thorin’s?” you demanded, your fear and heartbreak flaring into anger. “I love him, Gandalf! I love him because you brought me here!”

There was a quiet pause. “That, too, I did not foresee,” Gandalf answered. “I brought you here because I hoped that your gift for languages and your inclination to diplomacy might be of use to the company in their dealings with the elves of Mirkwood and the men of Laketown…but your bond with Thorin was an unexpected development.”

“So now I just leave him?” you asked helplessly, your voice breaking as you added, “I didn’t – I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Regret was etched on Gandalf’s lined face, and he looked more tired than you’d yet seen him as he said gently, “I am truly sorry.”

“Can I come back? When it’s safe?”

“I cannot promise it.”

You looked away from him, gazing toward the dim horizon for a long moment, blinking rapidly to contain the tears that stung your eyes. “Will you tell Thorin something for me, Gandalf? You owe me that much.” Your tone was reproachful, and he inclined his head in agreement when you looked back to him again. “Tell him…he needs to know that…that…” You took a deep, steadying breath, and at last the right words came, as though some force outside yourself had given them to you, and you spoke them barely above a whisper while your heart ached at the thought of Thorin hearing from Gandalf the sentiment that should have come from your own lips. “Will you tell him?” you finished, your eyes charging Gandalf to obey.

The wizard nodded soberly. “I give you my word that, when the time is right…I will tell him.”

You returned his nod, hastily wiping your eyes with your sleeve, then asked shakily, “so how do we do this? Do you have a magic mirror hidden in your hat or something?”

Gandalf gave you a sympathetic smile. “You will find that I have no need of magic mirrors, dear girl…close your eyes.”

Fixing him with one last, skeptical glance, you closed your eyes, feeling a nauseous trembling in your core. The image of Thorin’s face came irresistibly to your mind and your heart seemed to lurch into your throat, and a sudden desperation to stay rose within you, wrenching your eyes open as you burst out, “Gandalf, wait!”

You stood in the tiny kitchen of your flat near Kensington Gardens, the faint noise of traffic on the high street reaching your ears. The cup of coffee you’d sipped with breakfast before your fateful visit to the antique shop was in the sink, the last of the creamy brown liquid still staining the white mug, and the jar of jam that you had forgotten to put away remained on the counter, the chill of the refrigerator still clinging to the glass. Your iPad, plugged into the outlet next to the microwave, was only half charged. You looked numbly at your watch, finding that its second hand had ticked into life, once again making its inexorable circuit. 

10:37 am.

It seemed that Gandalf had managed to send you back to London at the precise moment when you’d fallen through the mirror…as though the last few months in Middle Earth had been merely a fleeting daydream. 

“Well, now you’re just showing off,” you said forlornly, for only the silent walls to hear.


	3. Under the same sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf has surprises up his sleeve.

The irony was not lost on you that it was proving far more difficult to adjust to being back in your own world than it had been to slip into the rhythm of life in Middle Earth. 

You filled your days with dutiful sightseeing, haunting all the landmarks and favorite spots that had so recently been the stuff of dreams, but the city that had once been so exciting now seemed flat and dull, and you looked at some of the most famous views in the world and wished with all your heart that you were still trudging through the wilderness, sleeping on hard ground, even hiding from orcs. You missed Bofur’s songs and jokes, Balin’s kind wisdom, Kili’s sparkling smiles, Dori fussing over his brothers, the grunt that passed for a “good morning” from Dwalin.

And Thorin.

Missing Thorin was a hollow ache in your chest that ebbed and flowed, but never left you. Vivid dreams of being in his arms again left you empty and despairing when you awoke, and it was the pain of being apart from him that made your feet carry you down Gloucester Road every day to stand in front of the antique shop that remained deserted, the faded china tea set in the window mocking you with its layers of dust.

Three weeks after your return to London, you’d gone back to your flat after a morning of distractedly wandering through the jewelry exhibit in the V&A Museum to find yourself with a growling stomach and slim pickings in the refrigerator. Taking the rickety elevator to the ground floor, you strode out into the summer sunshine on your familiar route to the grocery store, your eyes habitually straying to the shabby storefront and finding, on this Tuesday afternoon, that its faded, crooked sign now read, “open.”

The bell jangled harshly as you burst breathlessly through the door, calling, “Gandalf!”

“About time you turned up,” came an amused voice from the back of the shop, its owner appearing through a door that led to a small office. “I’ve been open since ten.”

Despite the frustration with Gandalf you’d felt on the day you had left Middle Earth and many times since, it was such a relief to see him, to be able to talk to him, that happy tears filled your eyes as your questions bubbled forth.

“How is everyone? How’s Thorin?” you asked, searching his face. “Did he get to Erebor…find the arkenstone?”

“He did,” he answered lightly, turning to shelve a book in the bookcase behind him. His tone seemed to suggest that there was nothing more to be said on the subject, and this conversation was so unlike the way you had imagined it over the last three weeks of waiting and hoping that you felt suddenly deflated.

“Can I go back?” you asked meekly.

Gandalf turned to you, his expression impassive. “At the moment, I think not.”

You nodded silently, crestfallen, and his smile was sympathetic, if a bit sad. “Forgive me…I do seem to be always asking you to trust me.”

“Trusting you has been a mixed bag, you know.”

He sighed, gently patting your shoulder. “I know.”

* * *

So eager were you to hold on to your one link to Middle Earth that you fell into the habit of turning up at the shop daily, like a sad-eyed stray kitten, and Gandalf soon declared that if you were going to be underfoot so often, you may as well make yourself useful. You happily drifted into the role of unofficial assistant, helping with odd jobs from dusting display items to serving the occasional customer to helping organize the inventory, for which Gandalf insisted on stuffing a crumpled twenty-pound note into your hand every now and then.

About a week into this arrangement, you were in the small office, sitting at the table and attempting to research the provenance of a pair of silver candlesticks Gandalf had recently acquired, when the bell on the door announced the arrival of a customer.

“I’ll get it,” you offered, closing the laptop and getting to your feet, and Gandalf toasted you with his fresh cup of tea from where he stood at the counter where the electric kettle resided.

In the cluttered front room of the shop, a man stood facing away from you, thumbing through a tattered book of maps that he’d picked up from a rolltop desk, offering a glimpse of dark hair, just long enough to hint at curling at the nape of the neck, and a broad back in a jacket of burnished brown leather. You had just opened your mouth to say “good morning” when he turned, silhouetting his profile against the sunlit window, and the strong brow, the angular nose, the firm set of the jaw beneath a neatly-trimmed beard made the words die in your throat. Your step slowing, you edged close enough to attract his notice at last. He glanced up from the book, his blue eyes meeting yours, and even as your brain told you it was impossible, you found yourself looking into the face of the man you loved.

“ _Thorin?_ ” you breathed.

He nodded, his brow creasing in a frown. “Yes.” His expression had been wary for a fleeting moment, but your appearance seemed to intrigue him, and his eyes searched your face intently. “I’m sorry…have we met?”

The air seemed to go out of your lungs, and as you groped blindly for the tea table beside you to steady yourself, your hand sent a porcelain vase to the floor, shattering with a tinkling crash that startled you both and broke your gaze. Gandalf appeared at your elbow, pressing a broom and dustpan into your hands.

“Terribly sorry about that, but, you see, it is quite a small shop, and accidents will happen,” he said smoothly, with a pleasant smile. “Why, just the other day, I smashed a teapot that was rumored to have been used by Marie Antoinette herself.”

Grateful for the occupation, you began to mechanically sweep the shards of porcelain into a pile, the two men’s conversation a vague buzzing in your ears even as you felt those piercing blue eyes on you for moments at a time. Soon – too soon – Gandalf was ushering your guest to the door with cheerful parting salutations, the bell sang its silvery tune, and the shop fell into silence as you leaned on the broom and stared helplessly at Gandalf.

“Who was that?” you asked, your voice trembling with emotion.

“That was Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf answered quietly.

A short, humorless laugh escaped your lips as you shook your head in bewilderment, and Gandalf took the broom from your hand, setting it aside as he guided you into the office to sit in one of the hard-backed chairs. He moved silently to the kettle, pouring hot water into a cup, adding a heaping spoonful of sugar and giving the tea bag a good mash against the side of the cup before placing it before you on the table, where it remained untouched while you sat numbly, waiting for answers.

Gandalf seated himself in a chair opposite you, resting his clasped hands on the table with a sigh. “It is time you knew what happened after you left Middle Earth, and why I have failed to answer so many of your questions.”

You said nothing, but waited for him to continue, a knot seeming to form and tighten in your stomach.

“After the company reclaimed Erebor and the dragon was slain, greed and vengeance were rampant, and the darkness of which I warned you saw in the weakness of the dwarves an opportunity,” Gandalf said regretfully. “Armies converged upon the mountain…some sought wealth, others blood or power.” He paused, looking to his interlaced fingers before meeting your eyes again and saying gently, “The battle was great and terrible…and Thorin fell. I was with him when he breathed his last.”

Tears filled your eyes as you whispered, as though your denial could make it untrue, “no.”

“However,” Gandalf went on, and you caught desperately at the word, “I brought all of my power to bear, and Ilúvatar heard my request. Thorin’s spirit did not pass to the Halls of Mandos, but was instead given a life in a human body. Here. With you,” he finished simply.

Through the fog in your mind, you thought confusedly of Gandalf’s mirror. “Did he just fall into London, like I did into Middle Earth?”

Gandalf shook his head. “I should say rather that he woke up here…as he believes he has done all his life,” he explained. “There may be faint shadows of Middle Earth in his memory, dismissed as fancies of his imagination, but as far as he is concerned, he has always been this man, lived in this city. He has a home, work…a quite impressive _curriculum vitae_ , which I embellished only with regard to the pesky details of education and employment history,” he vowed, wagging his finger. “Otherwise, I think you’ll agree that his natural abilities and experiences do recommend him.”

The wonderful absurdity of the situation suddenly overwhelmed you, and you couldn’t contain a laugh at his words, though it was broken, mixed with tears.

“You made all this happen,” you marveled. “Why?”

His expression turned somber. “Because it was I who set you both upon the path that led only to pain and death…and I wished you better.”

You digested this in silence before reminding him, “he doesn’t know me.”

“Not completely, no.”

“Completely?”

Gandalf leaned forward, giving you a small, encouraging smile before speaking solemnly. “The last words Thorin heard in Middle Earth were the ones you asked me to tell him.”

Your eyes widened, recalling the message you had desperately whispered in your own final moments in that world, and he went on.

“When I saw that he was beyond help, that the light was beginning to fade, I looked into his eyes. I told him that you wished you had a lifetime to spend with him…”

“…That neither time, nor space, nor even death could make me stop loving him,” you murmured, a fresh tear spilling to your cheek, and Gandalf nodded.

“He carries your words like a talisman. They are the reason why he felt an irresistible urge to go into a shabby antique shop in Kensington, why he feels a connection with you that he does not, himself, understand,” he explained. “The bond between you has been stretched, tested…but not broken.”

You exhaled heavily, wiping your eyes with a tissue from the box Gandalf proffered. “He’s _here,”_ you whispered, hardly daring to feel the hope that bloomed in your soul. “But he’s gone…how can I be sure I’ll see him again? No, wait, let me guess,” you added wryly, “trust you?”

Gandalf smiled, picking up your neglected cup of tea and sipping it himself. “On that point, I would advise you to trust Thorin.”

* * *

It seemed that more tourists wandered into the shop on the following morning than ever before, and you found yourself startling and glancing hopefully at the door each time its bell jingled. You were just directing an elderly couple from Arizona to the tube station when a dark-haired figure drifted into your peripheral vision, waiting patiently, and you stumbled over your words momentarily with the quickening of your pulse. The couple thanked you profusely and left, and you were alone in the room with Thorin. 

He was achingly handsome in a black leather jacket and jeans, his hair artlessly tousled, and you were seized with a longing to put your arms around him and kiss him as you had once done so freely, but you simply said, softly, “hi.”

“Hello again,” he smiled warmly, holding your gaze, looking at you with that same avid curiosity until you forced yourself to break eye contact. 

“Can I interest you in a slightly distressed vase?” you teased, nodding toward the wastebasket that held the casualty of your clumsiness, and he chuckled ruefully.

“I’m sorry about that,” he offered, “I can’t help but feel that I startled you yesterday.”

You shrugged good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about it. Like Gandalf said, it’s a small shop.”

“All the same, it was a shame to meet you under awkward circumstances.”

_If you only knew,_ you thought, a memory of falling through the sky and landing gracelessly in Thorin’s flailing arms flashing into your mind.

“I’m Thorin, by the way…though it seems you already knew that,” he smiled, extending his hand. “Thorin Braddock.”

His hand was warm and strong, not as large as it had been in his dwarven form, but its gentle grasp was familiar, comforting, and a smile bloomed on your face with the joy of touching him again at last. You told him your name, watching him hopefully for the smallest sign of recognition, but his grip only tightened slightly on your hand as he repeated it, saying, “that’s a lovely name.”

The handshake lasted long enough that you both chuckled sheepishly upon releasing each other. “I suppose I should ask if there’s something I can help you with,” you said. “Did you come to see Gandalf…er, Mr. Grey?”

Thorin shook his head. “Honestly, I came to ask if I could buy you a coffee,” he admitted, his smile tinged with the nervous hopefulness you’d seen in his expression when he had first asked you to walk with him in the gardens of Rivendell.

“Only if you let me buy you a pastry to go with it,” you countered playfully. “The place down the street has fantastic chocolate croissants.”

“Fair enough,” he grinned, relief plain on his face.

“I’ll just go get my bag?” you gestured with your thumb toward the office.

“Take your time,” he assured you.

You stepped into the office and closed the door behind you, silently bouncing on the balls of your feet in giddy excitement, and Gandalf looked up from where he sat at the table, doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

“We’re going for coffee,” you beamed, and he lay down his pen with a pleased smile.

“Of course you are.”

“Thank you, Gandalf,” you said earnestly. “For everything.”

He pushed back the chair and came to clasp your shoulders briefly. “I wish you all happiness, dear girl,” he said. “Love each other well.”

“That sounds like you’re going somewhere,” you observed, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Gandalf smiled. “My work in Middle Earth is far from finished…but I suspect you and Thorin will no longer require my assistance.”

You nodded, then remembered a small detail that had nagged at you, suddenly furrowing your brow with confusion. “Gandalf…one question,” you asked. “’Braddock?’”

There was a distinct hint of pride in the wizard’s grin. “An Old English surname meaning ‘broad oak,’” he answered. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that touch.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips, and you impulsively threw your arms around Gandalf, wanting to tell him how grateful you were, how much this second chance meant, how he had changed your life, but you only murmured, “don’t be a stranger.”

He patted your back affectionately, answering, “don’t keep him waiting.”

With a smile, you clasped his arm gratefully one last time before scooping up your purse and leaving the office. Rejoining Thorin, you walked with him out of the shop and into the cool, breezy English summer morning, heading down Gloucester Road to a nearby coffee bar.

“So, he’s closing the shop, just like that, to take a sabbatical?” Thorin asked, his hand lightly cupping your elbow as he stepped around you from behind to walk nearest to the curb. “He’s an interesting guy…seems a bit eccentric.”

You chuckled. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Coffee and pastries had led to sandwiches with sparkling water and the sun had floated past its zenith into afternoon, and still you and Thorin sat together at a tiny table in the corner of the cafe, your talk flowing as freely as the tea you now sipped. It made you smile to see that he still liked his tea strong and his pastries sweet, and you wanted nothing more than to just listen to him speak, watching his face while his deep, rich voice washed over you, marveling more and more that your Thorin sat before you as he had always been…thoughtful, determined, slightly flustered by praise and reticent to talk about his own accomplishments, with a dry sense of humor and hints of a romantic sweetness lurking beneath his serious exterior.

You savored every little grace note of Middle Earth in the conversation, like learning that he played the guitar to unwind and had a small but passionately curated collection of antique swords. He was the recently-hired chief operating officer of a prestigious civil engineering firm in the city, and the hint of stubbornness that crept into his voice when he went on a tangent about dealing with building codes brought a faintly amused smile of remembrance to your face, stopping him short.

“I’m sorry…listen to me, going on about work,” he smiled ruefully, running his hand through his hair. “You must be bored to tears.”

“No, I’m not, honestly,” you assured him, “you can talk about anything you like, I’m just happy to be with you.”

The words had tumbled out thoughtlessly, before you realized how they must sound to him, and a blush warmed your cheeks as you hurried to do damage control. “Uhh…I mean…I just meant –”

“No, don’t,” he said, reaching to lay his hand over yours on the tabletop. “Don’t take it back. I feel the same way.”

“Do you?” you wondered.

“From the moment I saw you,” he confessed, with a small chuckle. “I don’t know if it’s fate or if it’s wishful thinking, but it’s so easy to be with you…like I’ve known you for ages.”

You nodded in agreement, and he withdrew his hand self-consciously, leaning back in his chair. “Can I ask you something?” he ventured.

“Sure.”

“How _did_ you know my name?”

You sucked in your breath, considering your answer. “You reminded me of someone.”

“Someone called Thorin?” he asked, with a skeptical lift of his eyebrows. 

“True story,” you promised.

He paused for a moment. “Was he a good someone?”

“A wonderful someone,” you admitted, with a small smile. “But I guess you could say we weren’t in the same place at the same time.”

“Well, it’s his loss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Well, thank you, that’s very kind of you to say,” you chuckled, looking down to fidget with the handle of your cup.

“No, I mean it,” Thorin said firmly. “You strike me as the sort of woman a man should treasure.”

Your eyes flew to his, familiar words echoing in your ears. _My_   _ghivâshel_. “What?” you breathed.

“I’m so sorry, that was _really_ corny,” he winced. “I have no idea where that came from.”

“No, no, it’s not corny at all.” This time, it was your hand reaching to reassuringly clasp his. “It’s very…sweet.”

This time, his fingers moved slowly, tentatively to envelop yours, as a luminous smile graced his lips. “I can live with ‘sweet,’” he murmured.

Your answering smile was equally radiant. “So can I.”

* * *

**_Epilogue_ **

“Kiss me, Mrs. Braddock.”

With a grin, you tugged on Thorin’s tie to bring his lips to yours as the black taxi sped you away from Westminster City Hall toward the restaurant where your parents and siblings and a handful of Thorin’s closest colleagues waited to celebrate with you. His left hand rested on your knee, and you ran your thumb over the engraved band on his third finger.

“Now you’re well and truly stuck with me,” you said, and he smiled.

“How did I get so lucky?”

“I’ll never know,” you teased, leaning in for another kiss as he moved to put his arm around you, nestling you close to his side.

“Mmm,” his voice was a low, gravelly purr, “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to skip the reception and go straight to the honeymoon?”

“I think our guests might be disappointed,” you giggled, with a playful nibble on his earlobe.

“Fair point,” he conceded, grinning.

“Speaking of,” you asked, “what time is our train tomorrow?”

“Not until 11:30,” he answered, nuzzling your nose with his, “which gives me plenty of time to sleep in _and_ kiss every inch of my wife’s body before I whisk her away to Paris.”

“I love your idea of a honeymoon,” you smiled, and he sighed as he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured solemnly.

“Not as much as I love you, my beautiful man.”

He beamed. “Even more.”

In the years to come, your children would clamor for Thorin’s fanciful bedtime stories about a valiant King and his band of brave companions, and the beautiful princess from a faraway land. He was never sure, himself, where the ideas came from, usually assuming that they were remnants of some long-forgotten book from his childhood…but you would smile as you listened, and peek in to watch him stomping around the bedroom pretending to be a greedy dragon to the delighted squeals of your little ones, and when he had tucked them in and turned out the light, he would walk into your waiting arms, where you unfailingly held him close and kissed him, and thanked your lucky stars – and Gandalf the Grey – that you had a lifetime to spend with Thorin.


End file.
